Category: Arts & Theatre

Phil Starr, Drag Star

Phil Starr, Drag Star

Phill StarrWhen I did a piece on Ruthie Henshall’s Norwich gig a while ago, I slipped in a little anecdote about my pipe cleaning days and a drag queen called Dockyard Doris. This sent me on a trip around You Tube to find old footage of the lovely Doris. I discovered a few clips but none worth showing to your nan. While I was digging, I stumbled across some old recordings of Phil Starr. Warm memories came flooding back of simpler days when a real belly laugh was easier to come by. Phil Starr was an old school drag queen comic with impeccable timing and a closet-full of shaggy dog stories, each with a witty twist. Cutting but never cruel, Phil started his career in the Fifties and played to packed pubs right up to his sudden death in 2005 at the age of 73. I saw Phil sprinkle his fairly dust in the East End and Brighton. I laughed so much, it hurt.

I’ve picked out one example for your delectation. It’s rude, just a little bit crude and not at all PC. Change channels now if you’re easily offended.

Dispirit of the Dance

Spirit of the Dance

Liam dragged me along to the Theatre Royal to see Spirit of the Dance, a cross-cultural burlesque with a strong Celtic twist. It may be an international smash, seen by over ten million people, but I’m afraid I wasn’t terribly impressed. The enchantment of Irish country dancing is in the regimental coordination and parade ground precision. One wrong step and the spell is broken. Sadly, there was quite a lot of wrong footing going on by the mismatched little and large chorus line. The lighting was so poor, they might as well have been barn dancing and when they got to the fake Folies Bergère routine, I’d lost the will to live; more can’t can’t than Can Can. Added to this, the score sounded like it had been run up on a Roland in a shed. I didn’t see too many people shelling out for the CD during the mercifully long interval. A stout tenor with a Jagger-swagger was rolled on now and again. Why? His voice was fine but it added nothing to the show and just got in the way. And, hasn’t Nessun Dorma rather been done to death? Norwich audiences are very forgiving but, every time he strutted on stage, you could hear the groans from the herd of grey. His face didn’t fit and neither did his baggy tux. Riverdance it ain’t.

The Show is Over Now

The Show is Over Now

Time to take down the Anatolian display and pack away the posters. The Pride Without Prejudice Show is done and dusted for another year and what a successful run its been. If you’d told me back in the day when I ebbed and flowed along the nose-to-nipple Victoria Line that, a few years on, I’d be showcasing a book I’d written at a bone fide exhibition I would have told you to where to get off (at the next stop and mind the gap). Did I sell any books from it? Your guess is as good as mine. At the very same time I was mounting the posters, I was featured on WordPress’ Blogger Profile site which has over 10 million subscribers. As soon as their interview was published, it all went a bit crazy for a while. If I did flog a few copies off as a result of the show it was icing on the cake.  Will I exhibit again next year with the Sisterhood? Wild goats won’t keep me away.

Art for Art’s Sake

Posters

PWP3_Poster-A3As well as running a little workshop about blogging (a chat with one man and his dog, no doubt), I’m also exhibiting the Perking the Pansies book at Pride Without Prejudice at the St Margaret’s Church of Art. The gig starts tomorrow and continues for a fortnight. Can my irreverent take on the emigrey soap opera with my carry-on capers and titter-ye-not narrative be thought of as art? Entertainment perhaps, but art? I tend not to dwell on such questions. Some people think an unmade bed at the Tate is art. Who am I to judge? I’ll just chuck up my posters and hope for a few sales. The exhibition is presented by Art of Norwich in association with Norwich Pride and the Queer Arts Club. The showcase is open to all artists and entry is free. If you happen to be in the fair city of Norwich and have some time on your hands, come along and soak up the highbrow culture and my lowbrow wit.

Gorillas in Our Midst

Gorillas in Our Midst

Gorillas

We got back from holiday to face an invasion of psychedelic gorillas. I thought someone had slipped some acid in my gin and I was tripping the light fantastic. Don’t fret, I haven’t taken to class A drugs and mugging old Norfolk broads to feed a nasty habit. Not yet anyway.

Looking like the camp cast of ‘Planet of the Apes, the Panto,’ these unique and rather fabulous specimens of street art form the 53-strong gorilla trail around the city organised by the ‘Go Go Gorilla’ campaign. According to their website the trail will…

“… take place for 10 weeks during the summer of 2013 and will encourage thousands of people to discover and re-discover the city of Norwich, provide community and education projects and highlight environmental issues and the plight of one of the world’s most endangered species.”

At the end of the exhibition, the multi-coloured silverbacks will be auctioned off for charity. Bid early to avoid disappointment. Remember, a Guy’s for life, not just for Christmas (so says Liam). It certainly knocks spots off a naff garden gnome, not to mention the pushy teenagers in the street gripping clip boards to extract direct debits for the World Wildlife Fund.

Here’s a small selection:

The Go Go Gorilla campaign got into a bit of hot water with the Freddie Mercury estate when one of the exhibits aped the late great Queen showman in his cloney stage clobber. Breach of copyright, apparently. It was removed from the forecourt of the Forum – to be repainted. Boo, hiss. Unlike the stuffy suits running his estate, I’m reliably informed that Mr Mercury had a wicked sense of humour and a charitable bent.

Freddie

I rather hoped that Freddie the Gorilla would be resurrected in full drag as a tribute to the ‘I Want to Break Free’ video. Sadly, it was not to be. Freddie was reinstated today, sprayed black and minus his tash, crop top and signature buck teeth. So now it’s just any old primate in a Queen jacket. Still, all the fuss gave the campaign a bit of a boost and got them on the BBC.

Here’s my personal favourite, a mean-looking bugger with a strangely benign face. He’s less adorned than the others with just a light dusting of glitter sparkling away in the sun. Clearly, this Guy is not afraid of his feminine side. Or perhaps Guy’s really a Gal?

2013-07-04 14.23.36

Jack and Liam go to Palma

Jack and Liam go to Palma

Old Palma is a place in which to wander and explore. This is just as well. Our hotel, the Costa Azul, hadn’t quite finished constructing the bar by the miniscule pool or supplied enough parasols to avoid third degree burns on the sun terrace. We spent blissful days meandering through narrow cobbled streets, along grand boulevards, over battlements and across elegant piazzas. Palma is a city with art at its heart and the evidence is liberally littered around the streets.

Come nightfall, the Santa Catalina ward – once down at heel but now dressed up to the nines – seduced us with her trendy bars, cool restaurants and laid-back vibe. Upmarket Old Palma is a far cry from downmarket Palma Nova and eating out comes with a West End price tag attached. We stuck with the set menus to keep a check on the check. Still, a palatable glass or two of Rioja was very reasonable priced wherever we watered, and we did quite a lot of watering. Generally, the crowds were good humoured and lively, without being raucous. The one exception was a small bar called The Escape, a roadside inn tucked into the corner of a pretty piazza and frequented by pissed-up Brits from the yachting fraternity. Typical.

Towards the tail end of our stay, we pushed the boat out to visit Ábaco, a cocktail bar in the old town. Occupying a palatial former merchant’s house, part bar, part museum, Ábaco is a bit of an institution with guests being serenaded by light opera in Baroque opulence as they sip lethal cocktails served by snotty waiters in gold lamé cummerbunds. The entire experience was Disney kitsch with a crazy Catalan twist and only slightly marred by the continuous procession of camera-toting tourists wanting to stand, snap and gawp (image courtesy of MallorcaHoliday.com).

abaco2

We took the opportunity to venture out of town to the small resort of Ca’n Pastilla to surprise an old friend. Welsh rarebit, Bernard, gave up butlering for bar work a few years back and now owns ‘Thai at the Tavern,’ an unassuming little establishment at the end of the promenade. It does exactly what it says on the tin. Pop in if you’re in town. You’re sure to get a warm welcome, a cold beer and a spicy Siamese from the friendly valley boy. Bernard and I used to step out with the same fella (but not at the same time, obviously). I call Bernard El Presidente of the First Wives Club. When the bar closed, we ended the evening in a backstreet dive well away from the main drag with Bernard, a bunch of jovial locals, a bottle or three of cheap plonk and a strong whiff of weed. The next day we had wine flu.

Beautiful Thing

Beautiful Thing

Recently, my gig at Pride Live on Norwich’s Future Radio gave me the chance to chat with Nikolai Foster, the director of the 2013 revival of Jonathan Harvey’s ‘Beautiful Thing.’  What fun we had. Alas, I’ve never seen the play (I was always in the wrong place at the wrong time) but I have seen the Channel 4 film (over and over) and it’s as fresh today as it was when it was first released in 1996. At the time it was such a relief to watch a gay-themed drama that was about life and living rather than death and dying.

Beautiful Thing is currently playing at the Arts Theatre in the West End until 25th of May after which it goes on mini tour – Liverpool, Leeds and Brighton (sadly, not Norwich). Grab your ticket while you can.

To listen to the entire Pride Live podcast, click here.

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Pigs in the Proverbial

Shop ‘Til You Drop

Shop ‘Til You Drop

With the weather finally on the up and blossom dripping from the trees, the citizens of Norwich were out in their droves doing what the Brits do best – shop and sup. Purses and plastic were loosened in a brave attempt to drag the economy out of the abyss. Technically, the economy is as flat as a witch’s tit, rather than triple dipping and the patient needs all the TLC it can get. Market stalls toppled out onto the pavement, till queues weaved round Primark, the M&S food hall heaved with Norfolk broads and we couldn’t find a table in Pret a Manger when we bagged a baguette.

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We escaped the madding crowd by browsing the floor show in the Forum. Modern art isn’t everyone’s cup of char but Liam loved it.  I left him to peruse the exhibits and ordered a couple of drinks at the bar. Cheers!

Google Before You Go

Google Before You Go

BoudiccaA bright spring sky and a benign forecast enticed us out for a countryside foray. We fancied a look around a reconstructed Iceni village near the hamlet of Cockley Cley (there’s a joke in there somewhere but I’m damned if I can find it). Cast your minds back to the history books of your early school days and the chapter on Queen Boudicca (Boadicea). As the story goes, the Iceni were a Celtic tribe who lived in what is now the county of Norfolk. Following the Claudian conquest of 43 AD, King Prasutagus of the Iceni (Boudicca’s other half) kept his crown by taking the Emperor’s shilling and becoming a client of the Romans. When he died, he left his lush forests and clearings in equal share to his two daughters and fiddling Nero. The perfidious Romans ignored his Will, flogged Boudicca, raped her daughters and took the lot for themselves. Dowager Boudicca was seriously pissed off. Bent on revenge, she joined up with other revolting tribes and went on the rampage. The startled Romans got quite a kicking and the rebellion nearly succeeded in booting the double-crossing conquerors out on their toga’d arses. The insurrection failed in the end but not before the rebels torched London (the first great fire), Colchester and St Albans, slaughtering the inhabitants. Folklore has it that the old Norfolk broad is buried under platform 9 or 10 of Kings Cross Station in London.

We stopped for tea in nearby Swaffham, a pretty market town with kerb appeal and a sprinkling of charm. Sadly, it was closed for the winter (apart for the odd charity shop and the ubiquitous and over-priced Costa Coffee). We climbed back into the car and headed south, passing open fields populated with freakish scarecrows dressed like the Ku Klux Klan. Liam muttered something about Jerry Springer the Opera and sped on towards the Iceni village. Contrary to the forecast, it started to rain. More by luck than judgement, we found the faux settlement hidden along a nondescript country lane. The gates were firmly locked, like Swaffham, closed for winter.

Memo to self – next time you fancy dipping your fat toe into the history of the Ancient Brits, Google before you go.

Lady Haha

Lady Haha

Lady Haha Playhouse Theatre

To honour International Women’s Day (8th March), we plopped through the puddles on a blustery night to watch a quintet of female comics. The gals with gags strutted their stuff for the ‘Lady Haha’ show at the Playhouse, Norwich (a fab bar with a theatre attached). Generally, I’m not keen on stand up – a bit too hit and miss or too clever by half in my experience. I needn’t have worried. The acts – Grainne Maguire, Amy Howerska, Vikki Stone, Diane Spencer and headliner, Tiffany Stevenson – tickled my ribs with their bawdy take on feminism, racism, gingaphobia, relationships, dating, men, oversized willies and orgasms (or lack thereof). These funny ladies of the night are going places.

PS: I was a tad disappointed not to see Aisling Bea who was originally billed to appear, mainly because she sounds like a sickly insect. 

PPS: Vikki Stone is a younger, filthier version of the superlative Victoria Wood and is quite a hit on You Tube. This is one of her lewd tunes. Best not watch if you’re easily offended.

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